


Después

by laratoncita



Series: To Live & Die in LA [10]
Category: On My Block (TV)
Genre: Adults Trying to Adult, Bisexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Dealing, F/M, Gangs, Getting Back Together, Growing Up, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Past Relationship(s), Porn With Plot, Pre-Canon, Underage Drinking, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-04 22:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20478497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: Is it better or worse that things stayed the same?





	1. quemada por tus besos

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again w my wild projections and over-investment in oscar and my own oc. chapter titles from _madonna de las siete lunas_, by matilde elena lópez, which is also referenced within this chapter. pls enjoy :)
> 
> ps this starts mid-coitus lfjslkdfj so heads up

“Yeah,” Claudia says, hands scrabbling at the headboard, Oscar inside of her, his hips flush against her inner thighs, “like that, like that, don’t stop—”

“You want it, baby? You like that?”

“Please,” she says, and when he kisses her she can’t help but moan into it. Soon enough her orgasm washes over her—doesn’t matter that this is the fourth day in a row that he’s come by to see her; they’ve been winding up in bed sooner rather than later, and today’s no different. She moved the garbage can near her bed the day before, for easy access, and afterwards Oscar puts his arm around her, pulls her close despite the sweat on both their skin.

When he kisses her it’s like the past four years have disappeared. Like he hasn’t been gone for so long that she should be trying to figure out who, exactly, she’s dealing with. Maybe he’s doing the same thing she is; pretending that it doesn’t really matter. Focusing on the _now_, instead of the before. It’s easier.

“Oscar,” she sighs against his mouth, his tongue against her lower lip. He swallows the sound down, moves lower, his teeth a welcome sting. “Querido…”

“Whatchu do today?” he says, kissing her again before pulling back to look at her. Every conversation starts and ends like this: a moment of catching up and then getting distracted again. Oscar and his mouth and his hands, hers on him and his thumb against her lower lip. She likes to swallow down the sounds, too, after all.

“Nothing,” she says, keeps her eyes on him, hungry like she hasn’t ever been in her life, “went to the gym. Went grocery shopping.”

“You really get the whole summer off, huh,” he says, and grins, dimple showing. He rubs his knuckle against her eyebrow, presses a kiss there afterwards.

“Soy maestra, hombre,” she says, smiling right back, “I got over a month before classes start.”

“Whatchu gonna do until then?” The answer’s all over his face. Dark eyes watching her every move, darting to her mouth when she bites her lip.

“Decíme,” she says, trying not to smirk, and can only giggle when he rolls back on top of her, their hips notched together already.

After, Oscar cooks them both dinner, like old times, and she asks, “Hey. How’s Cesar?”

He gives her a funny look. “Fine. You ain’t seen him?”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Finally says, “No. Not since…since we broke up, actually.”

“What?”

She shrugs a shoulder, cuts her eyes to the side. “Adrian didn’t think it was a good idea.”

“The fuck,” Oscar says, and when she looks at him his eyebrows are furrowed. Whatever her expression is, he doesn’t seem too comforted. “Hey. I never told him you couldn’t stop by.”

“Yeah,” she says, “but. He didn’t let me, anyway.”

The silence stretches between them for too long, but then the food is ready and Oscar’s distracted plating everything. Claudia props her head up on her hand, watches him move around her kitchen—“This is small as hell, how much you paying for it?”—with more ease than she expected. It doesn’t feel like a shared space, can’t after only four days, but there’s something comfortable about it already. Oscar’s always been good at fitting himself into her world. She’s more than a little surprised it’s still true.

They haven’t talked about what happened, the last time she visited him at Corcoran. Oscar telling her to leave and her saying that maybe he was where he belonged. Or at the very least thinking it. Part of her still aches at the memory, the tears she shed on the drive home, feeling all alone for the first time in what felt like forever. She lets herself wonder how Oscar felt in the aftermath, a first for her. He’s here, after all, cooking for her, touching her, eyes tracking her every move like he’s afraid she’ll disappear the second he looks away.

How badly did he miss her, in the aftermath? Claudia went back to the distraction of school and work; he was stuck in a cell. How long did it linger at the forefront of his thoughts? It took Claudia months to work through—she had a date on Valentine’s Day with some dude she met through her roommate and went home alone anyway, crying once she was back in bed and missing Oscar more fiercely than she had since their breakup.

Wasn’t ‘til it was nearly the end of the semester that she started dating someone, some boy who half-reminded her of Oscar and who her friends thought was a wildcard. His name was Nico, devilishly good-looking, used to sell designer drugs to white folks and take her dancing, used to try to convince her to head to Colombia with him to see his country. That lasted a few months, until the end of fall semester her junior year. That spring, though, was the beginning of Maite.

She realizes, Oscar handing her a plate, that he doesn’t know she’s gone out with girls. Maite Figuera was the best thing about undergrad, if she’s being honest. They had met through her sophomore- and junior-year roommate; a self-described _shorty from the Bay_, Claudia wasn’t prepared for her. Curly-haired with a chain-smoker’s voice, she was the only other person that Claudia could say she really truly loved. They dated for a year and a half, only broke up because Claudia was heading back to LA and Maite was moving up to Sacramento. Neither wanted to risk a dragged out breakup, ended things amicably enough and stay talking to each other regularly, even now.

They keep meaning to visit each other. Claudia’s not sure when that’s going to happen.

“You good?” Oscar asks her, and she comes back to herself, blinks.

“Yeah,” she says, reaching for her silverware, “I’m good. Sorry.”

“Sure,” Oscar says, watching her curiously. He helps her wash the dishes and then kisses her goodbye, promises to be back tomorrow. He asks, the two of them lingering near the front door, unwilling to separate quite so soon like he hasn’t been over for hours already, “You ain’t busy, right?”

He even looks a little worried. Claudia shouldn’t feel so—_good_, about that.

“No,” she says, “I’ll be around. Just text me, if you wanna make sure.”

“Alright,” he says, and kisses her goodbye again. A third time just to be sure. The fourth kiss is definitely because they’re both distracted. Finally he makes it out the door, and she leans against it afterwards, cool against her forehead.

“I’m an idiot,” she says to no one in particular, and then goes to change her sheets.

He shows up the next day like promised, picks her up when she answers the door.

“Oh,” she says, and he laughs at her a little, dimpled like her fondest memories.

“Hey,” he says, gaze sweeping over her face before dropping to her mouth, and she doesn’t bother returning the greeting before kissing him hello. She doesn’t remember him picking her up like this before—remembers throwing herself at him, sometimes, her legs around his waist while they stumbled to bed. He’s stronger now, twenty-four in just a few months, than he was at nineteen. Makes sense.

“Hey,” she says, afterwards, and he puts her back down. Keeps his arms around her, though, and she leans against him. “How was your day?”

“Good,” he says, and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. He rubs his thumb over her eyebrow afterwards, asks, “Y el tuyo?”

She shrugs. They can’t even keep their eyes off each other. “Same as always. What’s the move today?”

Oscar laughs. “You tell me.”

She tilts her head, looks away for a split second, and when she looks back at him he has the same expression he had on his face the day before, when she zoned out thinking about those years she spent trying to get over him. She doesn’t know how to feel about them ultimately failing; almost as soon as he kissed her, in the parking lot just a few days ago, all those feelings came rushing back. Has her calling him _querido_ like they didn’t go near four years without speaking at all.

It seems mutual, is the thing. They always ran hot for each other—she knows that the sex doesn’t necessarily mean he still loves her, the way he did before all the bullshit got to them. It’s the way he looks at her that makes her think he still does, though. Not just the clear hunger in his gaze; there’s something underneath that. Something like relief to have her in his reach again. Even the way he touches her is tinged with something besides raw desire. He brushes her hair back before kissing her, holds her close before and during and after getting her into bed. It reminds her of chilling at the crib when they were younger, his arm around her shoulder, her waist under his palm. Just wanting to be close. He still feels like home.

“I was thinking of going to see my mom,” she says, meeting his gaze. Her fingers curl over his t-shirt, and she feels his hand sweep up over her shoulder.

“Yeah?” he says. The sympathy on his face stings, just a little bit. She used to spend a lot of time wondering what her mom would have to say about Oscar. If she’d scold her or if she’d get it. The tattoos on him, the way he looked at her. She likes to imagine that she would have liked him. She’d give almost anything to know. “You want me to come with?”

She bites her lip. Says, “Yeah, I do,” and he cups the back of her neck, presses a kiss to her forehead.

“C’mon, nena,” he says, “’s been a minute since I last seen her, too.”

“Mhm,” she says, tries to smile. “You miss her like I do, huh.”

He says, rubbing at her eyebrow again, “I got a lotta love for her for making you, you know?” and when she hugs him tight he lets her take her time.

The summer before this one, she finally got her a nice headstone, not the flat little one that just had her mother’s name on it, her life condensed down into the years she was alive. It’s nice enough, carved flowers around the edge and the epitaph—_Y cuando llega el novilunio / soy nueva en la violeta / y en la rosa / y crece más tu amor_—from a poem Claudia thought she’d like, Matilda Elena López a fellow Salvadoran. She thought about bringing Maite last August but by then things were fizzling between them and it didn’t seem worth it. She’s almost glad.

Oscar tells her he likes it, and she thanks him. They stand hand-in-hand for a long time, and neither breaks the silence until Claudia says, “I miss you.” She’s not sure which of them needs to hear it most.

* * *

Oscar decides to take her out for lunch, later that month. He doesn’t tell her in advance—shows up with Cesar in the passenger seat, his sunglasses over his eyes and smiling wider than she’s seen in a minute.

All her breath whooshes out of her when she sees Cesar. Makes her want to cry, just a little. Last she saw him he was so _little_, ten years old and still needing someone to take care of him. He’s almost unrecognizable, now, taller than her and broader in the shoulders than she expected. When he looks at her she feels—small. A fresh wave of guilt hits her, even if she knows her staying away after the breakup wasn’t a choice she was allowed to make.

“Hey,” she says, voice fragile even to her own ears, and Cesar just looks at her. Neither of them say anything else.

“Say hi, fool,” Oscar finally says, tapping his knuckles against Cesar’s shoulder, and then, “get in the back, C, let Claudis sit up front.”

Cesar doesn’t put up a fight, leaves the door open for her. Claudia comes close, the instinct to take him in her arms again—not that he’d fit the way he did when he was ten—suddenly overwhelming. It doesn’t happen, though, the two of them frozen in the split second it takes for her to realize that maybe it’s not a good idea. He quirks something like a grin at her, _Hi_, falling into the air like a half-thought. Climbs in the back without saying anything else and leaving Claudia feeling mareada all over again.

“Hey,” Oscar says after she gets in the car, leans over and kisses her hello. She’s distracted; returns the kiss with her eyes still half-open, pulls back and grins, self-conscious, at Cesar. He stares resolutely out the window, and part of her is disappointed. Remembers how he used to gag when he’d catch them kissing, or looking at each other a certain way, or just generally being more affectionate than he considered appropriate.

It’s like those four years she’s been ignoring have finally shown up. She doesn’t like the feeling.

Oscar, not getting the memo, says, “’S like old times, huh,” and squeezes her hand as they pull away from the curb. Claudia wants to know why it’s taken her so long to realize it isn’t.

They end up in La Avenida, of all places, a Salvadoran joint they used to order takeout from all the time. The owner recognizes her, smiles widely with gold-edged teeth.

“Y vos dónde estabas?” he asks from behind the counter, and when Claudia grins it feels natural, like no time has passed at all.

“Me fui a estudiar,” she tells him, Oscar’s fingers still laced with hers, “ahora vivo en Huntington Park.”

“Trabajas?”

“Es maestra,” Oscar says, nudging her towards a table towards the back, and the owner nods at them, still cheerful as ever, before offering a few menus to Cesar, who’s been too quiet the whole ride.

He doesn’t say anything when he hands them over, shrugs when Claudia says thank you. She swallows uneasily, tries not to look at Oscar. Scans the menu, instead, even if she already knows she’s about to order pupusas; she hasn’t made them in a while. Tried to make some for Maite for her birthday once and they didn’t come out quite right, not the way they did back when she was still living in Freeridge. Good Salvadoran places are hard to find, besides, and she knows that they know what’s up here.

“Whatchu getting?” Oscar asks her, pressed closer to her than is strictly necessary.

“Pupusas,” she says, a little amused, “what else would I get?”

He shrugs, grins a little. “Wasn’t sure if you switched it up in the last few years. You, Lil’ Spooky?”

Something about the nickname makes her want to stiffen; considering how close she is to Oscar, though, that probably isn’t a good idea, and she fixes her gaze somewhere over Cesar’s ear. He glances from her to Oscar and down to his menu.

“The same, I guess,” he says, and puts it down again.

“Their rice is pretty good, right?” Oscar says, looking towards Claudia, and she blinks.

“Yeah,” she says, “their tamales too, I remember.”

“Quieres yuca?”

“You don’t like yuca,” she says.

“You and C do,” he says, and then to Cesar, “you still like that, right?”

Cesar shrugs again. Says, voice tinged with something Claudia’s never heard from him before, “Haven’t had it in a minute.”

Oscar tilts his head a little. Raises an eyebrow. Looks like he’s about to say something but then the owner comes by, takes their orders as fast as Claudia can say them. The counter doesn’t hide anything in the little restaurant; back in the day, she and Oscar used to sit at this same table and watch them make their food. He’s got a thing about keeping his back to the wall. Likes being able to see the whole place no matter where they’re at. She knows why, of course; it makes her stomach sink, just a little, to remember the little things all that Santos shit sticks to.

At their table, though, the two Diaz are having a stare off, Oscar looking unimpressed with the bit of attitude that Cesar’s giving off. Claudia feels unsettled—her kids at work aren’t quite at the age where she’s got to worry about this sort of thing. There’s a reason she stuck to elementary schools when she was still a student, after all. She doesn’t like the tension rolling off them. Clears her throat.

“We brought you by here once, right,” she says to Cesar, and he cuts his eyes towards her. Makes her flinch.

“Yeah,” he says, glancing back towards Oscar, “I remember.”

“Hasn’t changed much, huh,” she says, and he shrugs again.

Oscar leans forward a little, and Claudia doesn’t know whether to feel exasperated or worried. Can’t remember the last time she was out with the two of them and Cesar acted up—he would have been littler, after all. Even when he was real young, five or six, and would sometimes need a break, Oscar would just scoop him up and chill with him outside for however long he needed. That used to work pretty well, but something about the way they’re looking at each other, and the heavy _leave me alone_ vibe off Cesar, is telling her that isn’t much of an option anymore.

“Wassup, homes,” he says, voice carefully neutral, “your li’l girlfriend tell you off o qué?”

Cesar scowls at the same time Claudia feels her eyebrows go up. When she looks at him she still sees him todo chaparrito, gap-toothed like when they first met—before she was ever Oscar’s girlfriend, and, Christ, is she his girlfriend again? They probably should talk about that.

This newer version of him is odd enough without Oscar suggesting he’s got a girlfriend. Fourteen seems real young for that, even if she knows, logically, it isn’t. It’s just _weird_, for it to be Cesar. She feels like a mom, suddenly.

“No,” Cesar says, still frowning, and Oscar leans back again. Purses his mouth, considering.

“You remember Monty’s girl?” he says to Claudia, and she blinks.

“Yeah. Monse.”

Oscar grins, says, “She’s still running ‘round with Cesar, can you believe it?”

Her expression is probably a little incredulous, but that’s really all she feels at the moment. She says, glancing between the two, clearly unbelieving, “You going out with Monse now?”

Cesar looks several notches above embarrassed. Says, “’S not like that,” sounding more like himself than he has the last half hour they’ve all been together.

“You playing the field already, compa?” Oscar says, and puts his arms over the back of their booth, curls his fingers over Claudia’s shoulder. She frowns.

“They’re little,” she says, “don’t say that.”

“I don’t wanna talk about this,” Cesar says, extremely uncomfortable. Claudia doesn’t like this conversation, but she hasn’t really liked any of what’s happened since Oscar picked her up.

“I was that age,” Oscar starts, and Claudia—definitely makes an ugly face.

“Oscar,” she says, low, “that’s not—”

“Aquí están las pupusas,” says the owner, and Claudia jumps a little. They smell unbelievably good, rich and cheesy like she remembers them. He hands them their plates, a side of yuca, and refills their water for them. Cesar thanks him, sounding like himself again, and digs in as soon as the man says, _Buen provecho._

There’s not much to do but dig in by that point. The atmosphere is still off, though. Stays that way even after Oscar pays for their food. Lingers as they pull up to Claudia’s building and he kisses her goodbye, hand shielding their faces from view even if Cesar’s probably ignoring them all on his own. It’s not a nice feeling—unsettled is the word that comes to mind. She’s not sure how to fix it. Not sure if she can.

* * *

Somehow—Claudia doesn’t know how, doesn’t remember him being this convincing before—she ends up at a Santos party.

Claudia thinks it’s a joke. She’s twenty-three, for God’s sake, a teacher with a monthly student loan payment and a bunch of other responsibilities she navigates all by herself besides. She likes to think she moved beyond this type of thing, even if it _was_ something she attended regularly before Oscar got locked up.

(She hates thinking of it like that. But that’s what happened. There’s no way around it.)

It bumps the same way it used to, old school reggaetón blaring, mota in the air and plenty of booze to go around. Lots of hynas in skimpy outfits. Claudia can’t blame them—it’s hot as hell outside, and she’s sweating despite being in a tank-top and shorts. Oscar’s got his hands on her from the second she gets out of her car, gets her pinned against the kitchen counter as soon they’re alone.

Claudia, like always, gets caught up in him, the back-and-forth of their kissing—slick tongues, the sharp bite of his teeth against her lower lip. She sighs, and when she tilts her head he takes it as invitation to move lower, bites lovingly at her throat.

She laughs, just a little bit. Thinks of all the time they’ve spent doing this lately, even if it doesn’t lead to anything else. She says, her voice lower than usual, Oscar mouthing at her skin, “They say kissing gets boring, sabés,” and blinks when he pulls away from her.

His eyes are so serious; for a moment she wonders if she said something completely different. He says, “They’re not doing it right then, huh,” before cupping her face in one hand, lips against hers again. Makes her lose her breath from the intensity of it, the way he tugs her close and grips her nape just so. Pressed together like they never want to separate, somehow sweet and possessive all at once, one hand flat against her lower back. He licks into her mouth, swallows her moans, and when he stops she has to keep her eyes closed for a second, overwhelmed and pliant in his arms. He asks, “You bored, nena?”

“Besáme,” she says, and he listens. She presses her whole body against his, arms around his neck, and then someone wolf-whistles and she jerks back. Finds herself looking straight at Santi, scar over his eyebrow like someone came at him with a knife.

“Look who it is,” he says, and when he grins there’s nothing humorous about it. “Didn’t know you was running ‘round with us Santos again.”

She feels sixteen again, in pajamas, the two of them in the kitchen and her not knowing where it might go. She wonders if Oscar can tell she’s gone stiff in his arms, thinks he might—he slides an arm over her shoulder, tucks her securely against him.

“Wus good, homes,” he says to Santi, doesn’t offer him the handshake that Claudia remembers them exchanging back in the day.

“Wassup,” he says back, eyes still on Claudia. If he seems bothered by the lack of handshake it doesn’t show. “Good to see you got your girl back, eh. She a real one.”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, pulls her even closer, her arm going around his waist so that they fit better. They’ve always fit together. For a while, in those months leading up to his sentencing, it seemed like they didn’t.

She says, words careful, “How you been?” and he shrugs.

“Better than Spooky, probably,” he says, teeth flashing. “Least ‘til now, it looks like. You sticking around tonight?”

“Yeah,” Oscar answers for her. His fingers curl against her arm. “Drinks out back, ya sabes.”

“’Course,” he says, and tilts his head, mocking, at the two of them. “Good to see you,” he says to Claudia, and she thinks he might even mean it.

“Jesus Christ,” she says when he walks out the kitchen, arm dropping from around Oscar’s waist even as he keeps his around her. She turns her head towards him. “I thought he left town.”

“Who told you that?” he says, finally looking away from the door. His eyebrows are furrowed, preoccupied with something. Claudia doesn’t like it.

She shrugs. “Leti mentioned it.”

Both his eyebrows go up. “You still talk to her?”

“Yeah,” she says, “she’s living with her man up in Montebello.”

“No sabía eso,” he says, and smooths back a stray hair that’s come loose from her ponytail. “Jump up on the counter?”

“Oscar,” she says, even as they work together to get her up there, “we can’t fuck in the kitchen again.”

He grins. She hates how she’ll probably say yes if he asks, despite the fact that she can hear the entire party going on outside. She doesn’t think she’ll ever want someone the way she wants this man. “I have a bed, nena,” he says to her, “’s just easier to kiss you up here.”

“I’m not short,” she says, even as he takes her face in his hands, “I’m average height, you’re just—mm, no, I’m right—Oscar—”

He laughs against her mouth. Gets distracted kissing her soon enough, anyway. Doesn’t get bored, either, pulls away only after the back door opens.

“Jesus,” Cesar says, when he spots them, “you two ever do anything else?”

“Yup,” Oscar says, and Claudia hisses.

“Oscar!”

“He’s fourteen,” he says, looking at her like _she’s_ out of pocket, “you think he don’t know what—”

“That’s not the _point_—”

Cesar starts laughing. Looks almost—happy. “You guys are gross,” he tells them, and Claudia hears it in the now and in the past, how he sounded before puberty hit lingering underneath this new man’s voice. The urge to hug him is still strong.

“Whatchu doing in here?” Oscar asks, his hand against her waist still, “Party’s out back.”

“’S real loud,” Cesar says, shrugging. “Didn’t think anyone would miss me.”

“You still hang out with the rest of your crew?” Claudia asks, sliding off the counter and, since he refuses to move, further into Oscar’s space. She doesn’t miss the way Cesar flinches at the question.

“Nah,” he says, looking away from them, that brief moment of good-naturedness slipping away, “got other stuff to do.” He shrugs a little, says to Oscar, “I’ll be in my room,” and heads off before either of them can say anything.

Claudia says, so close to Oscar that she has to tilt her head further than she likes just to look at him, “Is he okay?”

He shrugs, too, and for a second she wants to lose it. What is it with these Diaz and their shrugging? “He’s fine,” he says.

She bites her lip. Says, “He wasn’t fine when we went out to lunch.”

His brow furrows. “I talked to him about that. Shit, he shoulda apologized right now.”

“Wait,” she says, fingers digging into his waist when it seems like he’s about to drag Cesar out of his room, “no that’s—you were worse at that age, sabés.”

“We were barely hanging out when we were fourteen,” he says, amused.

“You and Celi started a food fight,” she says, flat, and he laughs, pulls them towards the back.

“I remember that,” he says, “shit, I felt bad, after. You got it worse outta the three of us and it wasn’t even you who was fighting.”

“Mhm,” she says, letting him open the door open for her, “yeah, I was there.”

“You still talk to her?” he says, expression so open she can’t help but look away. The music’s even louder out back, which is saying something. She sees Mario Martinez talking to someone she doesn’t recognize; feels a shock at how much older he looks. She’s less surprised to find him here, though.

“No,” Claudia says, careful, even as he steers them over towards the keg—God, she feels like an underclassman again. “After she had the baby…pues. I wasn’t really up here, you know. Stayed and worked down at the border mostly.”

“Really?” Oscar says, looking confused. “I figured you was up here seeing your girls.”

“Sometimes,” she says, and reaches for her own solo cup before he can offer her one, “pero, you know, she was a new mom back then. She didn’t really have time to be seeing me after a while. I see Yoli sometimes. Still in South Central.”

“That’s good,” Oscar says, even if he doesn’t seem to get it.

It stings, a little, to think of Araceli. Not because they had a big falling out, but because they seemed to drift away slowly and then all at once. Claudia didn’t know how to backtrack. She made it to her and Chilango’s courthouse wedding, even bought them a housewarming gift for their new apartment in Park Mesa, where Chilango wouldn’t get gunned down for the Santos. Didn’t mean they wouldn’t get gunned down by some other punk kid trying to make a quick buck, but, well. Anything was better than Freeridge, back then, Araceli pregnant and the two of them trying to figure out how to be a family.

Last Claudia saw her was during winter break her junior year. She stopped by with a few toys for the kid, had a cup of coffee, and was back in her car on the way to Leti’s within half an hour. Like they didn’t know how to talk to each other anymore. It makes her want to cry, now, just a little bit. Araceli was her first friend in Freeridge, over ten years ago when she first ended up there. It’s a hard pill to swallow. She doesn’t expect anyone to really get it.

“You staying tonight?” he asks her, arm still around her waist, their hips brushing.

She blinks at her drink. “Um. Was that the plan?”

He grins a little. Hungry-looking. “I’m asking.”

She bites her lip to keep from smiling back. He knows her too well. “We’ll see,” she says, but they both know the answer is _yes_, know it even before he tugs her close again like no one’s watching, the Santos and their parties just another thing they get to ignore.


	2. en tus brazos yo soy todo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: writing a graphic sex scene at the beginning of this will somehow make the rest of it hurt less, right?
> 
> anyway. thanks for reading :(:

With August comes the return of some of her job responsibilities—buying supplies, decorating her class, going to staff meetings and gossiping with her coworkers while they rehash the details they already know. Someone says she’s smiling differently and she can’t even play it off. She’s just happier, now. Is still grinning when she gets home and Oscar’s just climbing out of his car.

“Hey,” he says, when he catches sight of her, “how was work?”

“Good,” she says. She doesn’t _quite_ bounce into his arms, but it’s close. Kisses him sweetly, just for the joy of it, and when she pulls back he’s staring at her. She says, honest, “I missed you.”

He grins, a little. Looks caught off-guard. “Yeah?” he says, and then tugs her closer than she already is, “I missed you, too.”

When he kisses her, her toes curl. More heated, now, his hands stroking her lower back, one slipping lower to squeeze her ass.

“Mm,” she says, while he moves to kiss her jaw, “querido, we’re outside.”

“Could give a nice show, nena,” he says, but straightens up, laces their fingers before they even start walking. Stays on his best behavior until she turns to open her apartment door, when he runs both hands up her thighs, fingers moving surely under her dress.

“Oscar,” she says, not quite a warning, and then the door’s unlocked and she’s pressed up against it, giggling, while he kisses down her neck.

“This looks good on you,” he mutters, and bites. She can’t help but moan. He wedges a leg between hers and keeps kissing her. No one makes her hot like this but Oscar, all that fondness twisting into something that burns a little brighter in minutes. She rocks her hips, sighs, grips the back of Oscar’s neck when he moves to kiss her again.

He rubs two fingers over her underwear and she bites his lip. Says his name.

“Qué quieres, mamita?” he says, lips pursed against her skin. “My mouth?”

“Mhm,” she manages, tilting her head so that their mouths brush, “lo que querés.”

“I always want you,” he says, brutally honest, and she presses her hips up against his, tries to keep him as close as possible even if she wants him lower. They’ll get to it.

They can’t seem to stop kissing, but soon enough Oscar drops to his knees. When he grins it’s predatory.

“Fuck,” she breathes, Oscar moving underneath her dress and making quick work of her underwear. He kisses down her navel and then licks at her, too gentle. It makes her breath catch anyway. His mouth is so warm. “Oscar.”

“Mande,” he says, thoughtlessly, and then licks a long, broad stripe upwards that has her whimpering. He’s got both hands on her thighs, pushes them apart a little farther, the pressure the only thing keeping her upright. She clutches at a shoulder with one hand and the doorknob with another, moans when he mouths at her clit.

He pulls back for a moment, his laughter just a puff of breath over her, and then presses his mouth against her again, licks up inside her and sets her scrabbling at him like she’s about to go toppling. She used to think he liked this more than she did, and _she’s_ the one who gets orgasms out of it. She rocks up a little bit, tries forcing herself to keep still.

Oscar tugs the skirt of her dress out of the way, looks up at her with his pupils blown. “You can grind on my face, nena,” he says, grinning, and when she exhales it’s half-moan, half-sigh.

“Yeah?”

He smiles. Hungry. Makes her go hotter than she already was. “I like it.”

She doesn’t have words for that. Oscar doesn’t need them, though, just gets back to work, lapping at her like he’s got all day for this. He’d probably like that. He brings one hand up, fingers tight on her thigh as he moves to kiss her there, beard a pleasant scrape against her skin and his teeth biting down for the briefest of moments. Her hips hitch forward, and then he puts his mouth on her again. Tongue firm against her, now, not teasing her like when he started.

She lets her hips move how they want—her breath ratcheting, fingernails digging into Oscar’s shoulder, her free hand pulling at the collar of her dress like that’ll get the buttons undone. For once, she listens to Oscar: grinds against his face, feels more than hears him when he moans. “Fuck,” she says again, giving up on her dress and getting one leg over his shoulder instead, his hand on the back of her thigh guiding her for a second before it moves up higher. She’s hyperaware of everything: the sound of his mouth on her, her chest heaving, how hard the door is against her back.

He slips two fingers inside of her at the same time as he sucks, _hard_, on her clit, and her back arches, moaning loud at the sudden orgasm.

“Oscar,” she whimpers, hips still moving, and he just hums, licking at her a little more gently. “Oscar,” she says again, when words start making a little bit more sense, and pulls her dress out of the way. Oscar pulls back, and she says, “I wanna. Lemme ride you.”

He bites his lip. Smirks, a little bit. She’s about to lose her mind. “Yeah?”

“_Yes_,” she hisses, and then, “_God_,” when he keeps thrusting his fingers, rubbing up inside her still. He pulls them out slowly, stands and kisses her again. She grips his shoulders, half because she wants him closer and half because she thinks they both need the balance.

Getting to the bedroom is a challenge—later she’ll probably be impressed they didn’t go crashing to the floor. Once there he unbuttons her dress easily, pushes it off her shoulders while she works on his shorts. They stumble, just a little, and while he strips out of his clothes she pulls her bra off, sighs when he squeezes her tits. He ducks his head, sucks on her nipple, and they go tumbling into bed. She hopes he remembers she wants to ride him—he rolls on top of her, his cock hard against her thighs when he thrusts.

“Yeah,” she gasps, and he does it again, teasing at her entrance. He kisses her neck, her collarbone, sucks a bruise over her heart. Circles his hips and she moans, toes curling. “Wait—I wanna—”

“Yeah,” he echoes, mouthing at her tits again, “I know, gimme a—” and he gets a hand between them, presses two fingers deep inside her again, makes her nearly shout his name.

“Oh, God,” she says, and he pushes upwards, knows how it drives her to the edge, “Oscar, please—”

“You wanna ride me, baby?” he says, and kisses her, tongue and teeth and all. He pulls his fingers away, clutches at her hip. There’s no finesse to it at this point, just the raw desire to get as much of each other as possible, not close enough even like this. She sucks on his tongue and he groans, slips inside of her the slightest bit. She mewls. “_Fuck_.”

“Yeah,” she says, kissing him again, frantic, her hand wrapping around him. He thrusts into her grip for a moment, lets her push him onto his back. She moves down his body, kisses his chest, his stomach, his cock. Takes him into her mouth and relishes the way it makes him groan. Licks up the shaft, looks up at him and tries not to smirk at the desperate look in his eyes.

She sucks lightly, just long enough to make him say her name, then presses another kiss to his hip and climbs on top of him. He’s so warm; she feels like she’s about to buzz right out of her skin. Can’t remember she felt this caught up in someone; had to have been him, all those years ago, and she can’t even bring herself to be bothered by it.

Doesn’t take him inside her, though, not yet. She rolls her hips against his, watches his jaw drop. Twists again, breath hitching at the friction—delicious, but not _quite_ enough—and does it again, Oscar groaning. She wants him inside her so badly it aches, but first—

“You like it?” she says, breathy, wonders if this is how he feels when he asks her the same thing, “You like me taking care of you, baby?”

“Claudia,” he says, eyes dark with desire, “fuck, baby…”

She keeps grinding against him, leans back so she can watch the way his cock jumps when she pulls back. She’s so wet she’s dripping, nothing but a smooth glide when she moves. Can’t decide if she wants to keep doing this until she comes again or if she should bounce on his dick like she’s been wanting since he pinned her to the door. Oscar’s hands grip her thighs tightly, fingers digging into her skin. She says, barely recognizing her own voice, “Whatchu want, baby?”

Oscar exhales, hard. “Claudis,” he says, absolutely wrecked, mouth swollen from her kisses and from how long he ate her out, “please.”

He rubs his thumb over her clit, a barely there touch, but it makes her hitch forward anyway, hips rolling like he’s inside her already. “Yeah?” she gasps, “You want me to fuck you, querido?”

He hisses, thrusting up like he can’t help it, and she moans, his dick hard against her, almost where she needs him. “Yeah, _fuck_, I want you to—fuck me right, baby, I missed you—”

“You need me, huh,” she says, like she isn’t already reaching for his dick, hot in her grip while she adjusts herself over him.

“I need you,” he repeats, and moans when she sinks down onto him, her own mewls high and needy.

“Like that,” she whimpers, twisting her hips, like she ain’t the one in control right now, “yeah, like that, fuck, you feel so good—”

“Baby,” he manages, hands gripping her thighs while she starts to bounce, the sound of their bodies moving together making her even wetter, “give it to me, nena, just like—”

She comes again like that, filled up so good she doesn’t have words for it. Grinds her clit against him as best she can, pulls his fingers up to her mouth so she can suck on them. Watches him while she does it, his eyes darting from her eyes to her mouth to her tits like he can’t get enough. Lets her lose the rhythm, for a moment, doesn’t try to take over even if it’s clear she’s still trying to get her wits about her.

“You good?” he says while she catches her breath, and she shivers. Few things sound as good as Oscar does while they’re fucking. The hand he still has on her thigh feels anchoring; he rubs his thumb against her skin, soothing.

She circles her hips a little bit, watches how his lips part, and says, “Yeah. You wanna turn?”

He laughs, a little bit. Says, stroking his fingers up from navel to collarbone, squeezing her tits after, “Nah. I like the view.”

She grins. Starts moving again, curls her fingers around his wrist so he doesn’t stop touching her, thumb rubbing her nipple slowly. She’s only barely caught her breath when she finally gets a good rhythm going, moaning like she hasn’t already come twice.

Underneath her, Oscar’s still groaning, louder than he usually is. He gets both hands on her hips, starts meeting her thrusts. She whimpers, head tossed back, and tries not to lose so much control that he’s just holding her still while he fucks her. She likes him under her like this, likes how he sounds when he begs, just a little bit. She leans back, braces herself on the bed, and when she drops her hips her vision whites out for a second.

“Oh my God,” she says, and does it again, whimpering when Oscar pulls her down more firmly. She feels so full she can’t even say so. Manages, “_Oscar_,” on a gasp, fingernails scraping down his abdomen when she tries to reach for him and gets caught up in how good it feels, instead.

“Give it to me,” he says, hands hot on her skin, voice low. When she looks at him she sees the same wild-eyed look that must be on her face. “Like that, baby, keep going, keep—”

She tries to—gives a pretty good effort, if she’s being honest. He feels so _good_ from this angle, though, hitting her g-spot on every thrust. The pressure keeps building, like there’s something unwinding inside her faster and faster and all she can do is chase after it. She arches her back, keeps meeting his movements with her own. Says, feeling herself at the edge, “I love you, I love you,” once, twice, like they’re the only words she has left.

“Claudia,” he says, barely a gasp, and when she twists her hips feels the wave finally crash over her, cries out as her third orgasm hits, stretching out longer than the last two. She feels her thighs shake, a surge of wetness making everything even slicker, dripping down onto their skin even as Oscar gives one last groan and comes.

His hands drop away and she braces herself on his chest, breathless. She tries to ignore the fact that she just washed the sheets. “Jesus,” she says, and then notices he’s got a tear slipping down his face. “Oscar?”

“Fuck,” he says. He sounds absolutely wrecked, even more than he did earlier. She reaches out with one hand, cups his face. He laughs a little, presses the heel of his palm against one eye. “That was. _Fuck_.”

“Are you okay?” She hasn’t seen him cry in years. Doesn’t like to see it now, him still inside her. She can’t figure out what’s making him look at her like this. Eyes glistening, just a little bit, serious and pleased and—not devastated, but close to it.

“Perfect,” he says, and puts his hand over hers, still touching his face with nothing less than cariño, “never better.”

* * *

Oscar comes by to see her often, those first few weeks he’s out. Brought Cesar out that one time, but he doesn’t try it again. Doesn’t mean she hasn’t seen him, though—Oscar gets her into his bed, too, even if they prefer her empty apartment over a house where Santos swarm, flies to honey.

Nothing can compare to that first awkward lunch; Claudia shivers when she remembers. The tension? No thanks. She comes over for dinner, a few times, at least before school starts for the both of them. Shows up with a casserole dish full of salad feeling out of place like she hasn’t in ages.

“Whatchu bring?” Oscar says after greeting her, takes the dish without waiting. She trails after him, sees the same beat-up table they’ve always had, Cesar sitting stiffly already, eyes on his phone.

He looks up, says, “Hey,” and it shouldn’t feel like progress but it does. She grins a little too widely and he ducks his head a bit, clearly embarrassed. She’s taking it as a win.

“Hey,” she says, sits down when Oscar pulls her chair out for her, “you start school tomorrow right?”

“Yeah,” he says, shifts a little like he’s uncomfortable, and then—

Claudia blinks. Tries to make sense of the fact that Oscar just handed his fourteen-year-old a Modelo. She’s pretty sure she’s clearly staring.

“Is this salad?” Oscar says when he opens the dish she brought. “Nena, you think we don’t eat vegetables here o qué?”

“It’s what I had at home,” she says, a little faint.

“No tenías que traer nada.”

“I’m a guest.”

“You used to live with us,” Cesar says, even as he pops open the tab on his beer. Under the table, Claudia pinches herself. Tries not to flinch. “Pretty sure you don’t count as a guest anymore.”

“Pues,” she says, stretching out the syllable like she’s a teenager again trying to come up with a good excuse as to why she was late, or missing an assignment, or running around with a Santo. Can’t come up with a good response either way.

Oscar says, “Do you want a beer?” and it takes every ounce of self-control to not ask if he has any wine, or even a joint at this point. Been a minute since she last bummed around, smoking. Anyway, she’s not sure she wants to be drinking a beer next to a fourteen-year-old. She’s still not sure she’s really awake right now.

“I’m good,” she says, and after he serves them dinner—porkchops, tender even if they settle in her stomach uneasily—he sits close to her, lets the conversation fall over them naturally. Cesar moves carefully and it reminds her, suddenly, of Oscar after a bad fight. Something heavy settles over her. Oscar doesn’t even say anything when Cesar dips as soon as he finishes, makes her think she might be right. Instead, he scoots his chair even closer while she steals a sip from his beer, trying to calm her nerves.

“No que no querías?” he say, sweeping her hair back, and when she turns her head to tell him she’s an adult of legal age, unlike _some_ people who were drinking tonight, he kisses her. Arm around her shoulders, free hand creeping up her thigh. She returns the kiss for a second, can’t help herself, but then pulls away, just a little. He takes it as an invitation to kiss her neck, has her inhaling, sharp, at the feel of his tongue on her skin.

She tries to use her brain. Says, “Oscar,” and he presses their mouths together again, sweeter this time.

“You busy tomorrow?” he says, their faces still close together.

“Yeah,” she says. It’s a lie. It comes a little to easily. “En la mañana. Some work stuff.”

“Classes start next week, yeah?”

“Mhm,” she says, distracted by how he leans in to kiss her jaw, the deep inhale that follows.

“I liked your old perfume,” he tells her, “vanilla, right? What’s this one?”

“Orange blossom,” she says. Eyelashes fluttering, maybe, not that she’s about to admit it.

“Smells good,” he says, “you probably taste better, though.”

Christ. She’s a sucker for him every time, throws a leg over his thighs and straddles him in his chair without bothering to think about it being old enough that it might break. Forgetting the unease that’s still thrumming underneath her skin. He grips her ass, her thighs, kisses her hard and deep like it’s been ages since he last saw her and not two days.

“I missed you,” he mutters, groans, just a little, when she can’t help from rocking her hips against his.

“Me, too,” she says, and keeps kissing him.

He’s just gotten his hand under her shirt when a firecracker goes off outside, loud and sudden in the relative silence of the house. She jerks away, his hands the only things stopping her from busting her shit, and he grins a little.

“’S just some fireworks,” he says, and then she remembers everything that’s happened this past month and at dinner and thinks that maybe she should—get out of here, or something.

“Puya,” she says, and he laughs, kisses her throat again. “What time’s it?”

“Dunno,” he says, lips moving against her skin still, “maybe eight-thirty?”

She twists away from him, just a little bit. Ignores how it makes him frown. The clock reads closer to nine, and she bites her lip. She’s still in his lap. She doesn’t want to move, but she should.

“I gotta get going,” she says, and he frowns at her again.

“You ain’t staying?”

“I didn’t bring clothes,” she lies. There’s an overnight bag in her trunk. His hands are on her waist, and he feels so good, hips bracketed by her thighs. She wants to stay. Wants his skin against hers, wants their bodies to fit together even in sleep. Wants breakfast with him and Cesar in the morning, like when they lived together that one summer, five years ago now since then. Five whole years, she realizes. No one told her they would pass slowly and then all at once.

He breathes, nods his head. Looks disappointed anyway. “Alright,” he says, rubbing his hands up her thighs now. Comforting, even if she could probably get hot and bothered by it sooner rather than later. She kisses him in apology, climbs off his lap before her body can convince her to just stay. Goes to make her goodbyes.

She knocks her knuckles against the doorframe of Cesar’s room, says, “Hey. Ya me voy.”

He looks at up from her, where he’s skimming through some textbook. Doesn’t even look relaxed in his own bed. “I thought you were gonna spend the night.”

“Nah,” she says, “I got work in the morning.”

He nods. “Okay.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. “Good luck at school tomorrow,” she offers.

“Thanks,” he says. They look at each other for a long time. She’s about to push off the frame and head out when he speaks again. “I, uh. It’s nice having you around, you know.”

She blinks. Wills herself not to tear up. Wants to hug him, suddenly, but, well. Actually. “Can I hug you?” she says, and he looks surprised.

“Uh.”

“Sorry,” she says, immediately, laughs a little. Embarrassed. “That’s weird. Um.”

“Four years is a long time,” he says. Looks older than fourteen for a minute, and then shrugs. “Yeah, I’ll hug you.”

“God,” she says, but comes close before he changes his mind. Bends at the waist a little bit, since he’s still sitting. She remembers how little he used to fit in her arms, and it throws her off, to have him so tall now, looking more like Oscar but just as much like their mother. “I feel like one of those creepy dudes who harass girls at parties.”

“Well, you’re littler than I am,” he says, hugging her back carefully. He feels rigid in her arms. Twitches a little, like he can’t help it. She tries not to overthink it. “So. It’s not like you’re scary.”

“Thank you for calling me short,” she says. She lets go, keeps her hands on his shoulders. Tries to figure out why there’s unease there, doesn’t think it’s because of her. “You’re gonna hit Oscar’s height one’a these days and it’s gonna drive me nuts.”

“He call you short?”

“All the time,” she says, and then hears Oscar speak.

“Why you lying?”

She twists around, raises an eyebrow. “You always tell me that.”

“Not that much,” he says, leaning against the door. “You leaving now, then?”

“Yeah,” she says, coming close. He takes her hand, fingers curling over hers, and she says goodbye to Cesar again, lets Oscar walk her out to her car. Thinks about those times someone would land a good hit against Oscar’s ribs and lets the memory settle in.

“You sure you can’t stay?” he says once they’re outside. It’s a little too dark out for her to make out his expression. Thinks that maybe he’s—confused, underneath the disappointment. She bites her lip.

“Yeah,” she says, “I gotta be up early. Don’t wanna bother you getting ready.”

“You know I don’t mind,” he says, close enough to her that all she wants to do is wrap her arms around his waist. She lets herself, takes comfort in how quick he is to return the gesture. “Ay, quédate, Claudis, I know you want to.”

“I do,” she admits, leans into his touch when he cups her face. “But I can’t.”

“When am I seeing you again?”

“This weekend?” she says, and he frowns. “Oscar. Today’s Tuesday.”

“Weekends start Thursday, mamita.”

“Uh, since when?” she says.

He grins. “Ain’t that what all them college kids was saying, back in the day?”

“Hombre, I’m not a college kid,” she says, “I got bills to pay.”

“We always had bills.”

“Yeah, ‘cause we from the hood, sabés,” she says, lets him kiss her once, twice, three times. Sighs. “Ya. I have to go.”

“Okay,” he says, even as he keeps kissing her face. More exaggerated than usual, makes her laugh a little as he presses his mouth to her cheekbone, her eyebrow, her upper lip. “Call me when you get home.”

“I will,” she promises, and then they separate. She watches his figure slowly shrink in the rearview mirror, wondering why she doesn’t feel more guilty.

* * *

It’s not too long after that she finally lets herself be honest with herself: shit with Oscar is easy in a bad way. Makes her feel like she hasn’t had four years to figure out who she is, would rather spend time doing nothing with him when she knows she could use her time—maybe not better. Not more wisely. But just differently.

It comes down to this: Oscar is doing the same shit he always has. Claudia’s got a whole job with a completely different set of responsibilities. She doesn’t think they can coexist, her as a teacher, Oscar out gangbanging. She’s pretty sure they shouldn’t.

She thinks of how their bodies still fit together and it aches. He made fun of her the other day, laughing about how her makeup ruined one of his shirts—“What’s this sparkly shit, nena? You got it all over me,”—and it was almost like being sixteen again, running around trying to figure out what the two of them could make out of themselves. But she’s not sixteen. Hasn’t been, for a long time. Is maybe better than she imagined she could be. But Oscar…

She sees it even when she isn’t looking. Giving a fourteen-year-old beer with dinner, the smell of mota in the house ever-present. Before he got locked up, he’d smoke—well. He didn’t want to be his mother, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t like her in some ways. Didn’t do harder shit often enough to make her nervous, but sometimes, at parties, he did it anyway. She doesn’t think he’s doing that now, but. It makes her nervous, anyway. Makes her think of her students and her job and what might be said if she’s caught running around with someone with a tear on his face.

Claudia knows what she should do, but she doesn’t want to do it. It’s not about Oscar, is the thing. It’s about her. It’s her being selfish, thinking about what she wants to do in the next year or five. She remembers being eighteen, nineteen years old and not knowing what the months ahead of her were going to look like. She knows what they look like, now—but Oscar’s not a factor in that anymore. Hasn’t been in a long time.

When she looks at Cesar she sees what Oscar might’ve been, once. She sees how he’s probably going to grow into someone very much like him. She doesn’t have the heart for it. She’s still in the middle of trying to sort her own feelings out when Oscar—like always—manages to surprise her.

They’re cooking at the Diaz place, the smell of arrachera rich in the air, guacamole on the table already. Her first week of class has gone better than last year’s, now that she’s got more than just student teaching experiences under her belt. Oscar stops in the middle of drying his hands and just looks at her for a moment. He says, “I never said sorry.”

“For what?”

“For telling you to leave,” he says. When she breathes it’s like her rib cage is about to crack open. “Those first few months at Corcoran…shit was hard. I didn’t want you to see that.”

She meets his gaze. Takes in the tattoos, the buzzcut, a little shorter now than how he used to keep it but still such an _Oscar_ thing she can’t say it’s out of place. Considers the curve of his mouth, how his eyebrows are pulled together. All his focus on her. She says, “That wasn’t up to you to decide.”

Those months she took trying to get over him. How it all disappeared the second he touched her again. The things she learned and did and became while he was gone. The things he didn’t. It threatens to choke her, but she doesn’t want to let it show.

“Yeah,” he says, and steps close to her. Like it’s just the two of them in the house. “I’m sorry.”

She swallows. Says, because she can’t think of anything else, “Thank you,” before wrapping her arms around him.

Part of her still smarts at the way he ended things. Most of her, though, finds his presence such a relief she doesn’t even want to think about it. Near four years of trying to get over him and for what? For him to end up right back next to her anyway. Looking at her even more intensely, his touch a welcome thing and feeling new and familiar all at once. It’s overwhelming. Intoxicating. It makes her want to know what things would look like if things had gone just a little bit different.

“Where do you think we’d be,” she says later that night, the lights off, Oscar stretched out next to her already, “if we hadn’t broken up?”

“Hm?” Claudia turns her head towards him. They blink at each other, and then he says, “C’mere,” and she crawls into his arms, lets him brush a kiss over her eyebrow before curling up with her head on his chest.

He rubs her back. She inhales, deep. Wants to remember what he feels and sounds and smells like, suddenly, in this moment and everyone before it. This neighborhood is almost exactly like it was when she left it, and this bedroom, too. Just the two of them together, their bodies always oriented towards the other. She never thought she’d miss Freeridge but here she is. There and already bittersweet.

When he speaks, it’s careful. “I always figured we’d get married,” he says.

Four years ago the admission would have made her jump. At nineteen she wasn’t ready for that. At twenty-three, well, she’s still not sure. But this month of things falling back together has been a reminder, or an eye-opener, or something else equally accurate, of how _good_ loving Oscar was. Still is. It doesn’t make up for the bad things—the gangbanging, really, that’s the root of most of Oscar’s issues—but Claudia, no longer the girl who only loved Oscar, can see that more clearly now. Can compare. The guys she dated after him weren’t bad, and she loved Maite with all her heart, but with Oscar…

She doesn’t really want anyone but him. It was true before he got locked up, and she thinks it’s still true now.

It’s bittersweet. Knowing she wants to be with him forever. Knowing it’s probably mutual. Part of her wants to stay here, wants to wake up in the mornings in fucking Freeridge of all places, because her favorite person lives here. But she knows she can’t. Has known it, maybe, since that first day he came to see her.

She thinks of Cesar, how grown up and not-grown up he is. How he looked when he was little, how different he stands now. The careful way he moved the week before, the careful way Oscar watches him. The tattoos on Oscar’s face, the ways Cesar might come to look exactly like him. Thinks of how she can’t do this all over again. Knows she doesn’t want to.

She says, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “I love you, Claudia.”

She takes a deep breath. Turns her head and presses a kiss over his heart. “I love you, too,” she says, even if the truth sits heavy in her lungs.

It ends like this: Oscar thinks picking her up from work is a good idea.

She doesn’t quite shove him into the driver’s seat, but it’s close.

“What’s wrong?” he says, looking confused. “You said you needed a ride.”

“I carpool sometimes,” she says, teeth gritted. She shoots a text off to Brianna, who she was supposed to drive home with. Hopes no one’s seen her get into the Impala. “That don’t mean—”

“Why wouldn’t I drive you home?” he says. “I don’t mind.”

“That’s not what I’m—” she takes a deep breath. Looks around the parking lot to see if anyone can see them. She says, voice carefully neutral, “Vamos, pues. We should go.”

He starts the car. Says, “What, you think they gon’ try to start something?”

“Querido,” she says, regretting the words even as they come out of her mouth, “you have a face tat.”

Oscar goes quiet. Reminds her why they call him Spooky. “Y qué?”

She can’t ignore the challenge in his tone. Says, “I work in a school. Everyone knows what teardrops mean.”

Not everyone knows who the Santos are, but that’s alright. They’re only in Freeridge, anyway. There are too many gangs to keep track of, sometimes. She hopes it serves her well this time around.

“Whatchu trying to say?” he says. She looks at him from the corner of her eye. He’s staring straight ahead.

Claudia breathes. “D’you think my kids’ parents wanna see me with a…” She can’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t even want to think it.

“With what,” he says. Cold. Reminds her of the way they’d fight after she moved out of his place. She thinks she might be sick.

Lets it spill out of her. “Oscar,” she says, “you can’t take this from me.”

“What?”

“This is my job,” she says. “I’m a teacher. I can’t be chilling with Santos on the weekends, I can’t be in a house where they stay counting their fucking contraband.”

“I never let you see that,” he says, sharp. “You and Cesar always—”

“You know what bruised ribs look like?” she interrupts him. “You can see it in how someone moves, sabés.”

Oscar says nothing. She turns to finally look at him and his jaw is clenched. She can feel her heart break.

“I love you more than anything,” she says, and then, when he shakes his head in disbelief, “no, it’s true. You were my whole world. Maybe it wasn’t easy, or good for me, but it’s true. I love you too much.”

“Too much?”

She says, “Oscar. I can’t do this anymore.”

She watches the expression on his face twist. How he shakes his head, jaw tight, eyebrows drawn together. They’re maybe five minutes from her place. She tries to ignore how fast her heart is beating. She wants to reach out and touch him, but she can’t.

She swallows. Says, voice more steady than she expected, “I’m a mandated reporter. I can see what’s happening. I don’t wanna watch it.”

“You’d report me, nena?” he says, slowing to a stop at a red light. When he smiles there’s no humor.

“No,” she says, honest. “And that’s pathetic of me,” she says, her voice cracking, just a little bit. She says, “This is my whole life. I’m not giving that up for anyone.”

“I’m not good enough, huh?”

“I stay giving you more chances than anyone else,” she says. Takes a leap. “You know I had a girlfriend before this, right?”

He stares at her. Jerks when someone honks, turns back to the road but stays glancing at her from the corner of his eye. She rubs at her mouth, looks down at her lap.

“I’m not who I was when we broke up,” she says. “I love you, but. I’m not doing this again, Oscar. I don’t wanna be around this shit anymore. I said it before we broke up and I meant it. I’m not doing this again.”

“You had a girl—”

“Yeah, I did,” she snaps, “I dated people while you was locked up, alright. I tried to move on with my life.”

“You never said anything about girls, before.”

“I’m never gonna want anyone more than I want you,” she tells him. There’s no parking in front of her building, and they circle, lazy, like vultures and not the prey Claudia feels they are. “Point blank. That doesn't matter. You out here doing the same shit and me? I’m out. Ya. I’m not doing it.”

He pulls into a parking spot at the side of the building. Twists to look at her, gaze serious and unforgiving. She stares right back.

“This is my life,” he says to her.

“This is mine.”

He shakes his head a little. “’S this it then? Like nothing?”

“Not like nothing,” she says. “What, you gonna forget me for some Eastside chola in a week? Christ.” She puts her fingers to her mouth, pulls them away before she can start chewing on her nails. “Christ. I’m so fucking stupid.”

“Claudia…”

She unbuckles her seatbelt. Tells him, “I’m leaving. I love you, but I’m leaving,” but then she looks at him, his eyes and parted mouth and the way he just _looks_ at her, and she can’t stand it. Leans right over the center console and kisses him with all she’s got, like that first kiss they ever had, desperate as ever, mouths burning hot against each other. She can feel the tears on her face. “I love you.”

“Claudia,” he says, and then she climbs out of the car and doesn’t look back. She doesn’t think it hurts as bad she thought it would. Part of her wishes it did.


End file.
